City Lights Bookstore

down at the Goodwill store on the other side of town
i went shopping as a poet with my customary frown.
searching for my glory days on the off-streets of New York,
a spoon in my mouth still looking for a fork,
i found the Hamptons where Warhol bought his wig
and watched the revolution bar be que a pig,
and dealers of dope and modest health-food stores,
gurus signing posters and book shop whores
looking for lonely old Italian men with money,
eating and drinking, until someone calls them honey.
stretch limousines of social-register boys
came for breakfast and stayed to pet their toys.
an envelope delivered on a silver tray
when tea was served and cookies passed my way
said "Welcome!" inside so i rose to grab a drink.
a sentimental lady said it doesn't pay to think!
but if i could decide it would be in San Francisco
or rowing to my houseboat in the bay at Sausalito,
or in Carmel or North Beach for some theme-park rub
instead of sitting here in an old Manhattan club.

high horse

on the high horse
spreading your legs
sure, hide them inside the blue jeans
for all i care
i can still see how you spread your legs
the horse knows what i see
and he carries you willingly
he smiles more than i smile
a big toothy grin underneath his prominent nose
he knows you better and is not nervous
you spread your legs so close to his face
but he's a horse with leather taste
his ears straight up point to the sky
which watches you spreading your legs
i see a lonely cumulus cloud
that wisp of white and the sky
and the horse and i
we all watch you squeeze the saddle
between your legs and feel that pressure
and agree in unanimity,
you must be a very good rider.

Berner Oberland

There were no answers in Murren
even though the Eiger Monch and Jungfrau sat
watching me in my solitary descent
from the Schilthorn across our narrow valley,
where wild rhododendron kept kissing my face.
in the midst of this temporary affair with flowers and
with high meadow cows ringing my bell with each step i took,
i could still hear the whisper of the Swiss maid who
poured my beer at night, urging me to fill my blue-eyed well;
in the mornings, she buttered my croissant with her patient knife,
packed my lunch with a promise, and left her message in the way
she folded my bag.
But there were no answers in Murren
even though the rain fell during the morning i made my deepest penetration
into the back country, so far away i jumped over swift moving streams which would
take years to find the ocean.
and when i finally opened my bag for lunch, i heard the Moonlight Sonata bouncing
from the valley walls, each piercing piano note like a stab of recollection, in no
small measure, measuring me as i did the apple in my hand.

His last name is GOSTISHA

The boy from Santa Clara
smoking a red pipe
held his young nose high in the air
opening a military door
yet found no answer there.
simply the Stars and Stripes on the floor
neat columns of black and white
glorifying war
but that didn't make it right.
Some distance from Saigon
another helicopter pad
armed men with survival minds
but that didn't make them bad.
And man he loved his tobacco
sucking an Italian stem
shot me through with his questioning
"was it US or was it THEM"?
The boy from California
on a beach near Malibu
still remembers the crying girl
who stumbled without a shoe
and the child without her skin
and the boy missing his head
down by the water buffalo's blood
and all three were dead.
We went camping at Big Sur
walking the tide line without socks
he cried on the drive there
and when we rested on the rocks.

PULSE

the Mother with her infant girl
in her arms
sat on a burning field in Spain
near where
the German bombs had just fallen from the sky
a terrible noise fell and dead bodies fell
drumming piercing stabbing wails of anguish washing the wounds
no Democratic musician seen grooving to the sound of
heart beats of concussions thousands of screams mournful hearts
tossed dreams limp like un-stuffed dolls
haphazardly dusted in blackness each solemn face etched
and every eye tired and sore and bleeding tears
dense smoke coiling and crying children hiding
underneath crumbled bedroom walls where
no childhood memory no family picture remained intact
the temperatures rising, rising
as church bells ring in the near distance while hope fades
miracles fade, too, from the dry lips of anxious fathers
who wonder aloud about a better future or any future at all!
sleepwalking corpses methodically with a purpose
below a full harvest moon
hear the sound of each weeping field as their feet tip toe over ruin,
looking for a place where the grass is greener.
and another Mother with her infant
girl
in her arms,
her Earth finger pointing directly at the melting ice
near where ancient glaciers now frequently calve
a terrible noise as solid pieces fall thunderously into the salt sea
she holds her gaze steadily and
ice bergs newly born in their solar maternity ward begin
the long float away to a different sort of watery oblivion.
oh no, i fear they fall down on me! so i run, run
trying to stop the bombs as my feet
tip toe below a full harvest moon, over the same ruin
overwhelmed by the Mother's moan and her infant's sigh .

When i'm 64

grey shadows
maybe black or navy
the lights were so dim it was hard to tell
where exactly was i when
Van Halen began to play?
(oh) Greg it's time to ride i thought
i wasn't listening to the Beatles singing
for the 100th time after the murder of John and
the quiet death of George
When I'm 64
but damn if Ravic in Georgia didn't send that sweet link
i just had to give it a spin, pay attention to the lyrics
straight from the Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band
song track number, hmm, not sure but i can almost see
wait!! it's old fart land and do i want a clear view?
i can see for miles, but do you feel like i feel?

especially when it's a quarter to three!
it's simple, there are no hordes of cheering admirers
no beautiful woman with puzzled philosophical eyes
removing her cotton bra with a knowing smile,

remembering even if i forgot what was important
a teacher (perhaps) and i the attentive student
sharpening my pencil in a hand-cranked gear-tooth driven
little machine many many years after Darius the Great
used this very same machine to conquer his local world
remember, 2, it was Gore Vidal who wrote about him in a great book,
many many years before my recent birthday on the 6th of September
when i turned 64 and there's no turning back and of course
i miss Darius.
who will miss me?  once,
when i was fishing underneath a Paris bridge, i saw the padlocks that street lovers
secured to the open fence, hundreds although i never counted, because i
was never good at arithmetic, all meant to secure a relationship.
my fishing buddy in the Seine was Carl Sagan, who hooked me on science.
and even though i never measured the legal limit, i later
joined him on a chair outside of a Monmartre cafe, and mentioned to him
that his painted smile looked like a Starry Night,
like a Van Gogh, i guessed,
and he postulated that a trillion trillion trillion galaxies were in alignment
and those distant stars and others were our friends, smiling or otherwise.
all of my friends are stars, too, i said,

remembering their faces and how they soulfully laughed

or cried without embarrassment, regardless of the day.

and we drank to that!